


Silver

by cardiganfucker



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 18:14:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardiganfucker/pseuds/cardiganfucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were silver and perfect circles and Sherlock was running out of clothes to hide them under.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silver

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I'm Sorry John](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/5943) by mel. 



They were silver.

They were silver and perfect circles and Sherlock was running out of clothes to hide them under.

Most of them were about the size of a small coin but were fairly noticeable in light.

He got his first one when he was twenty-two.

*

His own reflections on the event were that he’d been stupid. So stupid. He hadn’t noticed the suspect’s thumb and an officer had been shot through the temple.

And the very next morning Sherlock had found a small silver spot on his temple exactly where the officer had been shot. He didn’t tell anyone. Just gained a strange temporary fascination with beanies that pulled his eyebrows back and made him look alien until his hair had grown out long enough to hide it.

He probably would have questioned it more, possibly found someone he could trust (that was a laugh, someone trustworthy) to show it to, but he found that cocaine makes everything go faster and that was much more interesting then an odd dot.

 

*

Lestrade had at one point threatened him.

Sherlock had been arguing with him, told him who killed the suspect, and nearly fell over. He’d caught himself on the police car that had been parked near where he and Lestrade were standing. He’d been high as a kite and hadn’t eaten for days and could barely stand much less properly function.

Lestrade snapped. He’d put a hand on Sherlock’s chest keeping him pressed against the car and told him if he didn’t clean up he’d wouldn’t be allowed back on any of his cases again.

Sherlock hadn’t gotten to respond when three shots rang out.

When the bullet ripped through Lestrade’s arm, Sherlock gained another silver mark exactly where it had hit Lestrade.

Whoever had been shooting had been aiming for Sherlock.

Lestrade ended up being fine and Sherlock ended up with a preference for long sleeve shirts.

*

As the years went by and Sherlock cleaned up, more people ended up getting shot for or because of him. Or stabbed. Or on one account tortured. And more and more little silver marks would appear. Always where whoever was shot for him was shot, or stabbed, or tortured had been, and seemingly always forever.

John Watson did not help this.

*

John was willing to die for him.

John was also willing to get shot, and stabbed, and tortured for him. A lot.

This did not help Sherlock’s problem, and within four months of living together Sherlock was covered head to toe in small silver circles.

*

He hid them the best he could. He’d put nicotine patches over the ones on his arms, and hide the one of the back of his neck with his scarf. But with John getting the shit beaten out of him in his name or because of it so often is was becoming near impossible to hide them all.

*

He’d collapsed against John in a cab after the rush of adrenalin faded and his body betrayed him. He’d been only moments when from sleep when almost nervously, John leaned over and kissed Sherlock on the temple through his hair.

The next morning as Sherlock caught a glance of himself in the mirror after a shower, he noticed the silver mark was gone.

*

They crashed into each other. Both clinging to the other as Sherlock took the lead and walked John backwards into the alleyway wall. John’s mouth was against his as his fingers went for Sherlock’s scarf. Sherlock nearly forgot about them. The tiny marks that dotted peoples devotion, or his failed attempts to save people that marked him.

He put a hand on John’s shoulder and took a step back. John immediately blushed and stammered.

Sherlock shut him up with a lingering kiss that promised more. Not here. Not in the alley way lit by a streetlight.

Somewhere dark.

Somewhere where his secrets would remain unknown.

*

It took them two days before they finally both got out of bed. The first night hadn’t been the quick experience of adrenalin and misguided actions as he thought. They’d gotten back and everything had slowed down. The kisses become longer, and not exactly on his lips.

The next time Sherlock looked in the mirror, they were gone. All of them.

John had literally kissed the hurt away.

End

**Author's Note:**

> Un-betad. Late at night, haven't slept in two days. Apologies if this is lunacy but I'm too tired to notice. Goodnight, children.


End file.
